


AU pile

by Randomfandoms389



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Nipple Piercings, Omega/Omega, Tentacles, spadesverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28187334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomfandoms389/pseuds/Randomfandoms389
Summary: some not-quite-complete fics I've had floating around:1. Alternate history AU - American imperialism2. Hanahaki3. Cultural differences, omega/omega (smut)4. America with dog ears + tail5. DIY tentacles6. Nipple piercings (smut)7. Spadesverse, magic in bed (smut)
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	1. Alternate history AU - American imperialism

**Author's Note:**

> wow it's been a while since I posted haha.  
> I still like usuk but I've gotten into a different fandom recently (any other svsss fans here? 👀), so... not sure when/if I'll be back, m'afraid! I did manage to go through my folder and fish out the stuff that was actually halfway coherent and clean them up a little. Lengths and ratings vary wildly. They're all up for adoption if anyone wants them!

America likes to think that he’s a patient guy. 

Really. He’s been considerate. Indulgent, even; letting England have the day to get settled in, come to terms with his defeat - official now, even though they’d all known for _ages_ how this was gonna end - and all that nonsense that he must’ve understood long before signing himself over. This wasn't exactly a new script, a new role to play; Europe’s been tangled up in these sick little games for centuries before America had come along. They all seemed to like it well enough - debasing their defeated, ripping them to shreds, humiliating them. It’s all a bit of fun to them, it seemed. America thinks he might like it too if he let himself try it. But this was the New World and they didn't do things like that here. 

Well. Not really. Much. 

This felt like a special occasion though. It wasn't every day you got to say you conquered the _goddamned British Empire._ (Canada didn't count, he was just a colony.) America’s almost giddy. He's humming aloud as he dismisses his people, who are all also pleased enough with themselves that they won't think to question his smile, the bounce in his step as he waves goodbye and makes his way to the drawing-room that he saw England ducking into earlier. Sulking, probably. Not that the Great - _former_ \- British Empire would ever admit to it. America feels the corner of his mouth curve crookedly. Maybe he’d let England keep his title; the old bastard was always one for pomp. And America had left his colonies in Asia undisturbed, so he could _technically_ still an empire. Just not as big of one as America now. Although… those territories had been signed over too. So. America’s colonies now. Gosh, this empire business was _fun._

The door to the drawing-room is pretty, all intricate carvings and delicate whorls that match the pale gold patterns on the wallpaper. He doesn't knock before opening it. It’s _his_ now, anyway, just like everything else of England’s. Like this room. It was pretty too; all plush leather seats and a carpet thick enough to eat his shoes as he stepped inside and took in the ornaments on the mantle, the paintings of probably-royal-and-definitely-very-important-people on the walls. 

Ensconced in a stately wingback-chair by the fireplace, England doesn't so much as look up from his book, but America doesn't miss the way his shoulders tense, his fingers tightening around the cover. His voice is even, though, almost bored when he says, “America,” in greeting and nothing else. It isn't too bad of an opening gambit. Bland and disinterested, a flawlessly aristocratic air of _and just what do you think you’re doing, daring to exist in my presence, you plebeian._

Too bad that America’s been over this song and dance many, many times by now. He knows full well what’s the standard operating procedure in Europe for a losing nation and this isn't it. England knows it too. It might have been America’s own fault really, for being so nice during the informal surrender a few days ago. Damned Europeans. Wasn't wiping out the better part of a damned _army_ enough to show how serious he was? What, should he have gone around executing all his prisoners? Maybe drag England out kicking and screaming to fuck him in the mud in front of everyone? That seemed to be how things were done here. 

And they called _America’s_ people savages.

England flips a page of his book. He's still not looking at America, but at least he wasn't still wearing that damnable red coat. Just layers and layers of fine fabric that America’s already itching to peel off. He tucks his hands into his pockets to forestall the urge - won't do to seem too eager - before sauntering right up to his newest acquisition, who only tenses further as America leans against the back of his chair. The nervousness was endearing somehow. He peers over England’s shoulder idly but doesn't even bother trying to unravel the unintelligible scrawl of words across the pages. For all he knew, they were in Welsh or whichever of England’s boring old languages. 

The silence was becoming oppressive and England seems to be getting twitchy with America hovering over him like this, but he's thinking. First impressions were important, after all, but while the Europeans seemed pretty big on genuflecting, America didn't care much for it. Hmm. _What to do with him…_

“Well!” America chirps abruptly and England actually jumps. His head whips around, that careful indifference discarded, but America just grins down at him, slinging an arm around slim shoulders companionably. “Wanna go somewhere else?”

  
  
  



	2. hanahaki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this thing careens from depressingly cynical to sort-of crack and then back to sad again

Nationhood can be a pain sometimes.

It’s not all fun and games, no matter how much America likes to pretend otherwise. There are Responsibilities for national personifications, unspoken or otherwise, responsibilities and roles and when you get down to it, how much choice they have in the matter is pretty much at the discretion of whatever leader they have at the time. America has been expected to play many parts over the years; the brash, loyal patriot was a popular one and America’s damned good at it, if he does say so himself. Y’know, _land of opportunity_ and _all men are created equal_ and all that, the good ol’ American dream. He’s got the enthusiasm down and all that energy can be spun into starry-eyed idealism believably enough. 

Even the cheerful airhead routine had been one of his own making; just to be nice and put everyone else a little more at ease because he's not _Russia,_ for goodness’ sake, and scaring everyone shitless with just a smile had always seemed a little depressing to America. 

America did like to smile after all. It would have been tiring to have everyone flinch every time he did it. Much better for them to sigh indulgently and laugh at his flailing and silly jokes, even if the hidden condescension sometimes set his teeth on edge. 

Well. 

Things could have been worse. He could have been human, for one. 

And if America had been human, he would have been dead. 

_Dead-_ dead, not _temporarily-inconvenienced_ -dead. Many times over, or so his doctor (the one on the White House’s payroll, who’s buried under so many NDAs it’s a wonder she still has anything left to talk about) tells him, and not even from the dramatic flashy ways like from getting shot or stabbed or blown up, though he’s done all of those too. 

Not that suffocation isn't dramatic, in its own special way. There's something striking about dying so slowly, he’s always thought, spun out over days and months and years that all stretch out in a long endless line, only to wake up and do it all over again and again. There’s the tiredness that creeps in slow and sweet and subtle as the feelings that brought all this on in the first place, every bit as insidious as the darkness that clings to the edges of his vision whenever he gets up too fast or talks for a little too long. He breathes in and can feel the ache in his ravaged lungs that’s so familiar by now he doesn't give much thought to it nowadays.

Then again, if he had been human, he probably won't be dealing with this in the first place because he won't have met England at all. 

On bad days, he wonders what that would be like.

Hanahaki was insidious though. Because sometimes - all of the time, really, even when he’s lightheaded and fresh from a coughing fit that had him choking on blood and petals and thorns that shred his throat to ribbons, he still thinks that it’s worth it.

* * *

_So you've got hanahaki,_ says the bubbly print of the pamphlet sitting in the middle of his desk at work. America just sighs and tips it gently into the bin. It’s one of the many that hospitals always put helpfully in waiting rooms and on national health websites and that his boss always not-so-subtly leaves around his office as if hoping that he can drum some sense into America’s head by sheer force of repetition. 

He’s read it already and it doesn't say anything he doesn't know.   
  


_Hanahaki_ _:_

_A disease whereby flowers grow in the lungs of those with unrequited love. The type of flower varies from person to person but tends to be of a variety that the victim associates with the person they love._

_Treatment is available upon request, but check with your medical provider for the following [...]_

_Side effects may include but are not limited to the following:_

_Loss of all feelings towards the loved one_

_Loss of memories of the loved one_

_Loss of the ability to love entirely_

_However, it is still recommended for victims to undergo the operation as untreated hanahaki is often fatal. Those most at risk are people with pre-existing medical conditions such as [...]_

  
  


Yeah, the pamphlets were pretty useless.

America knows his options. He doesn't want the surgery, no matter how stupid it is of him because he’s going to be stuck with this forever if his feelings don't go away. (They won't. America’s sure of it, the same way he knows that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and that England will never, ever love him back like that.)

It didn't matter much anyway. Humans died in late-stage hanahaki, sure. But death wasn't actually all that applicable a problem for America. Nations do die sometimes but it doesn't really feel like it since they always wake up again and normally, whatever injury that killed them starts to mend during this time. 

America’s died a few times to hanahaki already. 

These flowers stay.

So America had caved, sometime in the past decade, in between all the coughing fits and dizzy spells and blood splattered all over official documents that had to be reprinted afterwards. Partial removal of the hanahaki flowers was possible, just highly inefficient because they would just grow back since the roots were still there. He had agreed, grudgingly, only after assurances that this wouldn't do anything to his feelings. He was of no use to anyone like that after all; perpetually breathless and blue-lipped, about one wrong move from keeling over (and maybe also dying yet _again_ ) all the time because his lungs were crap. That sort of thing tended to be noticed and he couldn't just keep skipping meetings. Therefore, America allows himself to be bundled into an operating room every few years for his doctor to weed out the mini-garden in his chest. ( _‘The Great Pruning’,_ he liked to call it. His lovely, patient, long-suffering doctor had promptly hit him over the head with a clipboard and told him that her degree was in medicine, not botany.)

It is still slightly inconvenient because he can never enter a regular hospital unless he wants the civilian doctors to see the wreck of his chest cavity and have them freak out and go straight to the press or something. He can see the headlines already: _Man has literal rose bush growing in chest; should absolutely, totally be dead; what is the government hiding? More at five!_ His boss would kill him. 

And England would know. 

Yeah, he was never going to a hospital. 

* * *

There were a lot of websites and advice for hanahaki floating around. Most of it was bullshit, has been that way even before the disease got romanticised and milked for the tears and drama and viewer ratings. Some of it was useful though. America had figured out a few things on his own through trial and error and he’d helped a little when the government had finally gotten off its ass in the 90s and actually started allocating funding to research and treatment and production of those ‘ _so you've got hanahaki’_ pamphlets instead of just like, letting people keep dying from it. 

Hanahaki - the fatal kind - wasn't exactly spectacularly rare, but it wasn't common either. Most people got a nice, fluffy version; the middle school crushes and that superficial infatuation with the pretty stranger that you chatted with sometimes at the bus stop. This one was painless and usually died out in a month or two, regardless of whether your feelings were returned since that, well, your feelings were probably over with by then anyway.

The fatal version, though, was a persistent _asshole_. It was the clawing ache in your chest, bone-deep and sore as it grew and grew and dug its grubby little roots into _everything_. And America did mean everything; hanahaki had been known to spread to the heart and stomach too. It flatly refused to leave and generally just hung around and made a nuisance of itself. America had once idly suggested snorting herbicide to exterminate it. He had been mostly joking and it wasn't even like that would kill him, but his boss had given him this _look_ like he was about to put America on suicide watch and so America had hurriedly changed the subject. 

Recreational drugs seemed to slow down the stupid plant, which had been a nice and very much welcome revelation sometime in the 60s. Or so the hazy mess of his memories of the time told him. He wasn't allowed to do that anymore though because his people were all spoilsports. Nowadays, he just carries honey lozenges around everywhere because periodically coughing up bits of plant is really rough on your throat. Especially because England’s favourite flower is a rose, which America would absolutely vote for as the prickliest asshole plant of all time. Thus, honey lozenges.

Also, mints. Because no one needed to smell the blood on his breath and also because that if he got the really, really minty ones, they made his mouth feel like it was both on fire and numb at the same time and he didn't have to keep tasting copper. 

He’s also gotten into the habit of smiling closed-mouthed and obsessively checking his teeth for blood. Just in case, yanno? He’d gotten caught once for that because he’d laughed a bit too hard when talking to Japan and had almost panicked when called out about it. At least Japan had been discreet. He also seemed to think that America just had something caught in his teeth and America had absolutely encouraged that idea. In fact, that’s part of the reason he sometimes brings burgers into meetings and pours ketchup onto them like he’s afraid there might be a tomato famine. America doesn't even _like_ ketchup that much. And England always tsks at him for it, wrinkling his nose and stalking away muttering about _utter pigs_ and there being _a proper place and time for food and halfway through a meeting isn't one!_

… England looked damned good walking away though. Which had been a thought that made America immediately grateful for whatever meagre cover the ketchup provided. 

  
  


* * *

To be honest, America really can't be sure when he actually developed hanahaki. You can't really tell till you started choking on petals, actually, not unless you spring for a hospital visit and an x-ray. 

They didn't have many x-ray machines back then. And America hadn't actually been _thinking_ about all this shit. All he knows is that there was sometimes a funny little tickle at the back of his throat whenever he saw England do something cute like sneeze or yawn or shuffle his papers or pick fights with France during meetings. He thinks he might coughed a little the first time one of his dumb jokes actually _worked_ and England had to turn away to hide a smile. That had been a bit after the war and they’d been getting a little… well, close. Closer. With the special relationship thing and all. (America still couldn't think about the term without blushing. And then coughing. A lot. That last one put a bit of a damper on things though.)

And he’d had that baby crush on England as a kid too. Not to hanahaki levels, thank god, but it’d been there for a while. It’d died out for his Revolution period, yeah, but had definitely revived some during that war, sometime during the nights he and England had spent hunched over maps and intelligence reports together, making plan after plan and working out contingency after contingency. England did have a bit of a foul mouth when he wasn't censoring himself for little ears and America appreciated that sharp tongue and the biting remarks a lot more when they weren’t aimed at him. 

So he had suspected for a while, yeah, but only gotten his confirmation the first time he’d invited England to his birthday party and the grouchy old bastard had actually shown up, impeccably dressed as always despite the heat and looking utterly incongruous on America’s doorstep. He’d stripped down over the afternoon though, which had made America feel… something. Like the air had gotten a little thicker or the day a little hotter. Which was ridiculous. England had only ditched his tie and rolled up his sleeves a little. There were a bunch of attractive people wandering around the place in varying states of undress and America had barely glanced at them. He didn't feel like admiring the way _their_ shirts clung to every curve with sweat or hell, even admiring the bare, naked skin on display here and there. Instead, he kept catching his eyes drifting to the cant of England’s hip as he tried to talk Canada into letting him help with the grill or staring at the dip of an exposed collarbone after England had undone the top few buttons of his shirt. 

He’d only been distracted from his ogling when France had pounced, jamming a pair of tacky shades shaped like America’s flag onto England’s nose and effectively declaring all-out war in America’s backyard. (England had gotten him back by tackling him to the ground and slapping a palm to his forehead. This had been after he’d carefully arranged the back of one of those stick-on tattoos in said palm, which was a fact only discovered after England had let go and left France with a cartoony bald eagle with the ole stars and stripes emblazoned on his forehead. America had just about laughed himself sick.) 

England had even been ‘persuaded’ to put on the shades again for a group photo. By which, America meant that he had wrestled England into the frame and England had sulked and scowled, but he’d been in the photo with those glorious shades and the bruises he’d left on America’s side were totally worth it. 

They’d taken another picture afterwards, just the two of them standing in front of the pool because America had argued that he’d gotten photos with everyone _else_ for years and it was England’s own fault for not coming by earlier. It’d come out pretty well; England had shoved the shades up into his tousled hair and his cheeks were flushed from exertion and he was almost smiling from under America’s arm. 

Until about five seconds later, when America had chucked him into the pool (because England had been standing a bit too close and he’d been looking up at America with those eyes and America had been about to do something even stupider). Then England mostly just been swearing. But then he’d convinced Canada to throw America into the pool too, which was a job that America feels his baby brother took on a bit too eagerly. 

It had been a good day. 

And afterwards, England had knocked his shoulder into America’s on the way out and said _happy birthday_ for the first time in years, almost furtively, as if he were breaking some rule, and then yelped when America had beamed and squished him in a hug. 

And then coughed. 

He’d kept it together enough to wave and smile - lips pressed tightly together - at England as he got into a waiting cab and was driven away. Then he ducked into a bathroom and spat out a single red petal. 

A rose. Of course. America had stared at it for a long time, sitting curled up, knees to his chest with his back pressed to his bathroom door and feeling almost numb. 

  
  


It was the first of many.

* * *

  
  
The leaves and bits of stem come later. 

They’re bitter and sometimes the bits of stem come with thorns, which was _ouch_. Very much _ouch_. The petals were… a little better, but not by much. All right, honestly, the petals were sorta leathery and everything just tasted bleh, like uncooked vegetables.

It was mostly just petals though. _Single_ petals, to be specific, thank fuck. America is very much not looking forward to the time he starts coughing up the actual heads of the stupid roses. He’s having enough trouble already. Sometimes, all it takes is a single stray thought to set the damned things off.

Like one time in a meeting that England had taken a seat by the window and America just couldn't stop staring, distracted by the way sunlight looked on sandy blond hair and how it had made those freckles stand out even more against pale skin and green eyes. England never fiddled with his pens, he was too professional for that. America looks at the way this one - a black fountain pen - is balanced between long fingers, perfectly precise as it moves across the paper. England’s filled up more than three pages already, all in his cramped handwriting. America’s papers are blank save for a few doodles he’d made in the corners before England had walked into the room. He doesn't really care though and would have gone on happily looking at England for the rest of the day if England hadn't shifted then, lifting his pen to his lips and - America has the brief, fleeting fantasy of seeing something _other_ than that pen in England’s mouth and is promptly waylaid by the most aggressive coughing fit he’s suffered in a while. 

He tries to stem (heh, _stem_ and also _ow_ ) the sudden and very inconvenient uprising that the plant residing behind his sternum has decided to hold against his respiratory system, but by the thirty-second mark, it’s pretty clear that America’s not about to stop coughing any time soon and people are starting to look over. He carefully doesn't check if England is among their number. It’s not too hard; his eyes were tearing up involuntarily from all the hacking he’s doing and everything’s gotten pretty blurry. America waves a hand at the speaker - Switzerland, who does not seem too pleased by the interruption - and makes the vague but universally understood gesture that he’s very sorry and to please not get out the guns again, thanks. 

Apologies thus conveyed, America beats a strategic retreat to the nearest bathroom. Where he proceeds to vomit up a mess of soggy petals and bile.

He flushes it away quickly and tells himself that the reddish tinge in the water was because of the rose petals.

* * *

  
He can't keep pretending for long though. 

Hanahaki is manageable enough when he’s on his own land and isn't being constantly confronted by how gorgeous England is and how long his legs are and even the terrifying and slightly impressive way he could tear a person to shreds with nothing more than a sharp smile and a few pointed words. (Yeah, America isn't really sure why the last one is attractive either. That doesn't stop him from feeling a little hot under the collar every time it happens though.)

World meetings are unfortunately mandatory so America can't go around constantly skipping them just because his lungs kept misbehaving whenever he so much as looked or thought or breathed wrong in England’s direction. Hotel rooms are a good way to avoid people though. Very self-contained, are hotel rooms. He can just hide in there whenever a meeting isn't going on and not have to see anyone at all. It’s great. The trouble with this strategy, however, is that sometimes… just sometimes, hotel bookings go astray. It happens. With all the travelling that nations do, it’s honestly just a matter of time before something goes wrong somewhere, statistically speaking. 

However, it is incredibly unfortunate that America’s time comes when he’s in London for a conference. Someone must’ve fucked up somehow and now he’s kinda just wandering around aimlessly because the hotel he’s supposed to stay at had been overbooked and then he’s had no luck with every other place he’s tried so far and now he’s kinda just staring at his phone is a sort of resigned horror. He has a message from England. 

A message. From England.

 _Come over, idiot,_ says the little chatbox, looking innocuous for all the heart palpitations that it’s currently giving America. _It’s going to start pouring soon and you have a meeting tomorrow. You can stay at my place for the night._

America breathes in slowly and then makes a very hurried phone call to his boss. 

“DID YOU TELL ENGLAND I’M STRANDED IN LONDON?” He whisper-yells into his phone. Well. Mostly yells. Then he coughs.

Fucking hanahaki. 

And his boss _did_ tell on him. America feels appropriately betrayed. 

This does not stop him from staying at England’s place for the rest of his trip. It’s quite pleasant, for all that its owner tragically keeps impairing America’s lung function. People tend to look at England and assume that he’ll only own, like hardwood furniture and maybe those uncomfortable flower-print sofas that grandmas have, but England’s living room is actually an excellent spot for a nap. He has those big squashy armchairs that try to eat you whenever you sit down and doesn't even nag America for putting his feet on the furniture as long as he’s wearing a clean pair of socks. And France always liked to say England’s cooking was crap but well, _maybe_ America likes his food a little burnt and he can always just pick the charred edges off anyway. So there. England doesn't cook much anyway, too busy with work. America usually does it if he has time. The prolonged proximity seems to have even calmed down the stupid, rampaging rose bush in his chest, which was an unforeseen perk.

So everything’s all well and good up to America’s last day in London. He’s hunting for his socks because he _knows_ that he put them in the washing machine yesterday and they were his favourite pair, damnit. They had really cute corgi faces on them. He's not leaving without them. 

“ENGLAND! HAVE YOU SEEN MY SOCKS!” America yells finally, giving up because England had the near-magical ability of most parents to find exactly whatever you were looking for without any apparent effort and often in a place that you had already checked a hundred times. It was a gift that had been employed to great effect in America’s childhood and he’s confident that England can still pull it off. 

“ENGLAND!!”

No answer. Goddamnit, had he already left for work? America takes the stairs two at a time, grumbling. He’d already checked the guest room he’d been using and the living room and the kitchen and the study, so that just left England’s room now. America pauses outside the door for a second before deciding that he wants those socks, damnit, and he’s only going to talk himself out of it if he keeps waffling around out here. He was just gonna be in and out, anyway, England probably won't mind even if he was still here.

This made a lot of sense at the moment. So America grabs the doorknob and barges into the room with all the confidence he can muster. 

It’s absolutely a mistake. 

England _is_ still in the house, as it turns out. He's looking right at America, eyes wide and startled. He’s also mostly naked. There's a towel wrapped around his slim hips and a pair of boxers in his hand and the rest of his clothes laid out neatly on his bed. His hair was wet. He must have just gotten out of the shower. 

He had a lot of scars, some part of America’s brain notices distantly. The rest of it is too busy flipping the _fuck_ out about all the pale, pale skin right in front of him while also trying to keep his eyes respectfully away from the long expanse of thigh that the towel absolutely does not cover or from the droplets of water tracing their way down England’s chest. His naked chest. _Ohgodohgod-_

It takes England clearing his throat loudly to make America snap out of it. His pale cheeks were flushed. “Do you _mind_?”

“I-” America gets out around the sudden scratchiness in his throat, the frantic thud of his heart. His face felt like it was on fire. “Fuck, I - um. I was. Socks?”

“Socks,” England says, voice verging on incredulous, and does not seem to realise that his towel is slipping. 

“U-um-”

“Oh, for - get _out_.”

America gets. He shuts the door behind him, cheeks burning, and manages a quiet but very heartfelt scream into a cushion on the sofa before his parasitic rose plant decides it has given him enough time for his little meltdown and demands to be released. 

* * *

Ok, that last one had totally been on America. England had come downstairs, still looking a little pink around the ears, and located the missing pair of socks under America’s favourite armchair within five minutes. They had made zero eye contact for the rest of America’s time in London, but England had still given him a ride to the airport, so he probably hadn't irreparably fucked up their relationship. 

The next incident is also - surprise, surprise - mostly America’s fault.

He considers the almost overwhelmingly adorable sight that was England wearing his bomber jacket and morosely decides that he must be torturing himself on purpose. At least, by now, he’s mostly learned how to silently regurgitate flower petals instead of hacking all over the place and making everyone think he’s dying. 

He is still dying. Just on the inside. And the worst part is that he had brought this upon himself. His stupid, stupid self, who hadn't even _hesitated_ when England had declared he was cold, slurring a little the way he always did when he’d had a bit too much. The jacket had been wrapped around England’s shoulders before America’s brain could even begin to say _now hold on a minute here-_

And England was snuggling into it now, burying his face into the collar so all that America can see of him is a mess of tousled blond hair and those fluffy eyebrows. He’s so drunk that it’s bypassed _funny_ and gone straight to _adorable_.

America is never washing his jacket again. 

Hanahaki could have killed him right here and he would have died happy.

* * *

He thinks that they've been making progress lately. 

Nowadays, America can get away with a quick half-hug in the hallway if he arrives early for a meeting and catches England there, sorting through his notes. They go out for lunch together more often than not and England doesn't threaten to leave even when America suggests the occasional McDonald’s.

England had made scones the last time America had been to his house. They were as dry and crunchy as they always had been and America had eaten every last one offered to him. (England had insisted that the presence of baked goods in his kitchen and America’s visit had been an utter coincidence, but the point still remains that America had mentioned idly how much he missed them the last time they’d spoken.) 

He doesn't think that England would even consider agreeing to a date yet though. This feels more like affection of the platonic sort. 

They might never move past this, he knows. England might never love America the way America loved him. 

That’ll be okay though. America would have been happy with anything England cared to offer him. 

(But there’s _hope_ now, sharp and bright and insistent. He’s not sure if that makes things better or worse.)

* * *

He’s cutting it really close. It’s been five years since the last time he had the surgery and his chest hurts all the time now. His frequent coughing has acquired a distinctly wet, rattling sound and his boss has been giving him _very_ worried looks when he thinks America can't see. There's a doctor’s appointment in his near future, but for now, America doesn't want to think about it. 

The feelings come back after the operation, yes, no one had technically lied to him and it was possible that they didn't even know since it was all or nothing for the humans - you either removed the flowers completely during the surgery or you didn't undergo it at all - but there's always this odd… numbness around his memories afterwards. He remembers that he loves England, but the warmth of the emotions just seemed duller. Like all the colours had been bleached out and painted back in black and white and grey. America hates it. He’s not going to take the surgery until he absolutely has to.

And he doesn't have to, not yet.

His skin is ashen, but it’s nothing that makeup can't hide, just like his almost-blue lips. He can't always keep food down and he’s constantly tired, but it’s hard to sleep with the persistent stabbing pain in his chest, so he gets up earlier and now has more than enough time to apply concealer and blush and the natural shade of lipstick that he carefully chose. It all works out, really. This little routine sometimes makes him feel like an imposter in his own skin, but he knows that if anyone saw how he _really_ looked like now, it would be a mess. He doesn't want that stupid surgery, he just… he just wants England. It makes him feel a little pathetic, like he’s a kid again and he’s tugging at England’s shirtsleeves and trying to hide behind England’s legs after something had spooked him. 

Still. This is nothing he hasn't dealt with before. 

It’s just never been so… much. 

* * *

“America, aren’t you going to-? Get up, idiot, the meeting’s over. Everyone’s already left.”

“Hello?”

“America?”

“ _America_.” A hand lands on his shoulder and he groans quietly, pushing his face further into the crook of his arm. He hears a soft sigh from somewhere behind him and then he’s being nudged aside with gentle hands, off the stiffly unyielding spine of the thick booklet that he hadn't quite realised was digging painfully into his right arm. That was all right, America decides blearily. The table was much nicer to nap on anyway.

He doesn't pay much attention to the quiet rustle of paper or the clatter of stationary going on beside him. He's just really, really, really tired and the warm hand pressed to his forehead suddenly makes him realise how horribly, awfully cold he feels. So cold that he sighs softly and leans into that hand, chasing it when it retreats, until he bumps into something just as warm and solid and nice that’s just the right height for him to wrap his arms around and bury his face into. 

His new pillow shifts slightly, making an aborted sound, but America doesn't care. It’s warm and comfy and he doesn't want to move, not ever… 

Wait. 

What was…going- _meeting room. World meeting. I’m in… London? Someone’s talking._

He pries his eyes open. Slowly, because he’s waking up a little now and he has a feeling that he doesn't really want to know what’s going on. 

_... Oh boy._

This was decidedly not a pillow. America really, really doesn't want to see who this thigh belongs to. He already has a pretty good guess, because there was only one person wearing trousers in this shade of green today but looking up would confirm it and then America would literally die. He would be forced to spontaneously combust in acute embarrassment, right here at this godforsaken table.

England does not seem to be suffering from the same problem. Perched serenely on the conference table, he seems utterly unbothered to have his leg commandeered to serve as a cushion. His hand is tangled in America’s hair, cradling the nape of his neck. 

America has his face in England’s lap.

England’s hand is in his hair. 

America categorically decides that he is too tired to deal with this today. _Nope, I think the fuck not, emotional crisis. Go away and come back some other time._ He decides, quite determinedly, that this is just a very nice dream and he’s either asleep in his nice, warm bed back home or being wheeled into an operating theatre in D.C. after collapsing or something and they've just given him some very good painkillers. Yeah. That works.

It leaves him free to enjoy how England’s voice is softer than usual too, gentle and lulling like a lullaby he might have sung to America once, a long time ago. “You don't have a fever,” he says, almost to himself. His thumb brushes America’s ear. He’s so warm and he’s petting America’s hair and his touches are so soothing that America almost goes back to sleep on the spot. He makes a vague sound of discontent when England shakes him gently. “No, no, love. Don't fall asleep yet.” 

He says some other stuff too, about calling a taxi and getting some things from someone’s hotel (America’s hotel, for some reason, it seemed?) but America barely hears. England had called him _love_ ; this was a really, really good dream. The best, really. America is immediately quite prepared to do whatever Dream-England wanted.

And what Dream-England seemed to want was for him to get up. So America does, letting the figment of his subconsciousness pull him to his feet and then catch him when the room swims dizzily around him and his legs buckle. “Shite,” he dimly hears England murmur when America goes limp and lets his head loll forward onto a strong shoulder. This was his fantasy, England could totally hold him up. He could probably manage in real life too, but America doesn't exactly have Real-England pressed up against him now so that’s a moot point.

“America? My god, love, when did you lose so much weight? What’s going on?” England sounded worried enough that America actually wants to tell him. This version of England would probably hug him tight and say _I love you_ back and mean it and then everything would be fixed. But this isn't a fairy tale and anyway, America’s tongue feels thick and clumsy and his mouth doesn't really want to work, so he just buries his face into England’s neck with a sigh and breathes in the smell of black tea and slightly spicy aftershave. Mmm.

England’s started muttering something about the economy and how it surely couldn't have gotten so bad without anyone noticing in an increasingly distracted tone. America doesn't like the edge of distress in that pretty voice though and nuzzles clumsily at him trying to get rid of it.

“S’not like that,” he manages finally, slow and slurred like he’s drunk or something. His head still feels too light, but his lungs haven't felt this close to okay in a while and America savours it, leaning heavily into England and latching onto his suit jacket even though his fingers feel weirdly numb. He must've been lying on his arms for too long. “‘M tired, Engl’nd. Wanna sleep.”

England makes the switch back to concern impressively quickly. “Of course, poppet,” he says softly, smoothly accented in the way that makes a small shiver slide down America’s spine. He likes this England’s penchant for pet names. He likes it very much. “Can you - wait, nevermind. Silly question. Here, let me just…” 

England stoops a little and then America feels an arm at the backs of his knees, pushing gently. There's a quick rush of movement and then he’s being picked up, brought close to England’s chest with his head tucked into the crook of England’s neck. Oh, this was _nice_.

“I’m glad you think so.” 

Had he said that aloud? Didn't matter; America’s more absorbed by the slight rumble of England’s chest as he speaks. That was nice too. England’s walking along, barely seeming phased by America’s weight. At some point, he pauses to talk to someone over America’s head, but America’s too far gone to bother listening. He just hides his face in England’s shoulder, barely noticing the way his glasses dig into his cheekbone, and falls asleep between one step and the next.

* * *

America is vaguely aware of being bundled into a car, of having a seatbelt drawn over his chest, the loss of England’s body heat against him. He thinks he might have whined in protest at that because England makes this soft, soothing noise and then there's the hesitant brush of warm lips over his forehead, settling him enough that he lets England close the car door without further complaint. 

He wakes up again when something slams quietly and takes a minute to recognise the blur of colour that was England’s garden through the windshield. Roses, he recognises groggily and closes his eyes again so he doesn't have to look at them. Then the door on his side opens and warm hands are guiding him out so England can pick him up again and carry him into the house proper. It doesn't even occur to America to complain about the treatment. He just goes limp against England’s chest and listens to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart through his layers of clothing. Although… there's something almost _off_ about England’s breathing, he thinks. It’s almost familiar, that slightly strained, hollow sound, though America can't quite place where he’s heard it. His head feels too fuzzy to really do any thinking and besides England’s talking again and America’s almost mesmerised by his voice, rich and smooth and so, so nice to hear from this close. He’s not really paying attention to the words, just the tone and the gentleness and how much it soothes him. 

“I’m afraid that you have to settle for using my bed, dear. I wasn't quite expecting a guest, you see, so the spare room is rather dusty at the moment and it doesn't seem like the best place for you in this state… ah, here we go.” 

There’s the creak of an opening door. America realises belatedly, looking around, that they were already on the second floor. He hadn't even noticed them going up the stairs. England hefts him up a little, stepping inside and hey, isn't this England’s room? America makes a vague, confused sound, but lets it go as England lowers him onto something soft that smells like… _Oh, this was nice._ America sighs happily, rubbing his cheek into the pillow. It smelled a little like shampoo and tea and that awesome aftershave and it’s so very England that America is immediately at ease. He’s still not happy about the actual England moving away from him though, but it turns out that the man’s just helping to take off America’s shoes and belt. Though he pauses when America starts fumbling one-handed with his jeans. He’s failing pretty bad at it though, so he pries his head off the pillow to give England with a bleary look that clearly means _help._ Then he flops back down ‘cause his head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton and the room’s spinning a little. 

“M’not sleeping in jeans,” he mumbles into the pillow and England finally laughs a little before moving to help. His hands are brisk and efficient, but America shivers a little anyway at every brush of England’s hands against his legs and doesn't even care if it’s noticed. The room’s pretty dark though, with the curtains drawn. He can barely make out England sitting on the edge of the bed and being unfairly gorgeous with his tie loose and collar rumpled from where America must’ve been leaning earlier. 

It’s all really blurry though, which reminds America. “M’glasses?”

“Bedside table,” England tells him, pulling the duvet over his now bare legs and tucking him in. “I took them off in the car.”

“Oh. ‘Kay, then.” Then he yawns. It’s so weird. He’s been having trouble sleeping for months and now his eyes feel heavy and England’s smoothing his fringe back, fingers lingering and making America’s skin tingle. He catches England’s sleeve when that hand slips away and the older nation starts to stand. 

“Aren't you gonna stay?”

He almost cringes at the naked emotion in his voice, but he’s so tired and England makes him feel better just by being here and America doesn't want him to go even more than he doesn't want to embarrass himself by acting like a child. He doesn't know when he acknowledged that all this wasn't a dream or decided that he didn't care anyway. England pauses. Then his hand returns, slowly, almost tentative as it cards through America’s hair. 

“I suppose a few more minutes won't hurt,” he says finally, almost too quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- and that was where I ran out of ideas   
> :(  
> I was sad about not finishing this one but I am also very Not Good at writing resolutions as y’all could probably tell *stares guilty at other unfinished fics*


	3. Cultural differences, omega/omega (smut)

Arthur really hadn't seen this coming. No _if_ s, _but_ s or _maybe_ s about it; had someone told him that he’d be spending his day - and probably the rest of the week, from the way things were going - tangled up in bed with Alfred F. Jones with his tongue down his throat, Arthur might have laughed in their face. And perhaps put in a call to a psychiatrist because they were clearly off their rocker. Unwitting inspiration for many of Arthur’s guilty nighttime fantasies or not, Alfred Jones with his unfairly pretty face, annoyingly attractive accent and ridiculously bad jokes was about as straight as an omega could get without turning into a ruler. Or so Arthur had thought. The way Alfred was moaning under him now did call that assumption into question rather effectively.

He was wonderfully warm and solid under Arthur’s hands; almost feverish, in fact, as he clings desperately to Arthur’s shoulders and makes the prettiest little noises as Arthur kisses him and touches him and kisses him some more, almost drunk on pheromones.  _ Heat  _ pheromones, or close to it. Arthur thinks he might be in heaven. There was a gorgeous omega in his bed, between his legs, and from the way said omega  _ smelled  _ \- Arthur tears himself away from the kiss just to bury his face in the crook of Alfred’s neck and breathe - in Arthur’s bed, he would  _ stay _ . At least until his heat was over. Arthur saw no problem with this. He lived alone and owned a bed was more than big enough for two, he had food and water (and more importantly, a generous assortment of sex toys) all strategically stashed in his room because his own heat was due… about now-ish, actually. It’s a bit hard to tell which bits of the prickling arousal and pooling heat in his belly were the fault of his own hormones and which were Alfred’s doing though. Arthur vaguely recalls some saying that omegas who were close tended to sync up heat cycles. 

Well, he  _ had  _ been spending quite a lot of time with Alfred lately; they shared several classes a week and now, with almost everyone else gone for break, Alfred had been annoyingly persistent in dragging him out to various diners of dubious cleanliness and quality. (Arthur had agreed on the condition that Alfred tell no one of his shameful addiction to Mcdonald’s and at least  _ try  _ to refrain from teasing him about it.) 

Experimentally, Arthur nibbles at the smooth expanse of tanned skin under Alfred’s jaw. Alfred moans. Loudly. It was a good thing that Arthur had invested in decent soundproofing if the way that Alfred was behaving now in pre-heat was any indication. He seemed quite far along now; Arthur estimated that he would be hitting the  _ god, please fuck me, fuck me right now _ stage within twenty minutes. 

God, the thought of Alfred writhing, begging for him… Arthur bites him again, harder, and almost moans a little himself at the sudden flare in Alfred’s scent, the jerk of Alfred’s hips against his own. Arthur grinds back thoughtlessly, his thighs pressed smugly to either side of Alfred’s body, and the friction is so sweet that he could have come right then and there in his pants. 

He's burning up and suffocating and they're both wearing entirely  _ far  _ too much clothing. It was too hot. Too bloody fucking  _ hot _ , why were they still wearing clothes again? Arthur yanks at the bottom of Alfred’s t-shirt with a growl that makes the other omega squirm underneath him. “ _ You _ ,” he says against Alfred’s throat, barely recognising his own voice. “Naked. Now.”

“Ah- _ Arthur _ -” Alfred gasps out, shuddering when Arthur loses patience and simply shoves his hand up Alfred’s shirt instead. The material is soft and worn, but Arthur isn't particularly in the mood to appreciate a comfortable shirt at the moment. He shoves it up impatiently, dragging his nails along Alfred’s side as he goes, rubbing his thumb against a pert nipple when it’s finally exposed. It makes Alfred gasp again, mangling another cry of what might have been Arthur’s name. The shirt has been rucked up nearly to Alfred’s armpits; when this fact registers in his hazy mind, Arthur immediately redirects his attention from his detailed study of Alfred’s collarbone. He dips his head, nosing down Alfred’s chest until he gets to a pretty pink nipple and can flick his tongue against it, hearing Alfred’s startled moan as if through a fog. It’s a nice sound, so Arthur keeps at it; licks and sucks at the sensitive flesh, nipping playfully at the tender flesh just to make Alfred swear breathlessly and twist his fingers in Arthur’s hair. And when he reaches up to toy with the neglected nipple, god, the  _ sounds  _ Alfred made - 

The bulge in Alfred’s jeans, pressing against Arthur’s arse, has definitely grown. He wonders suddenly, through the pulse of electrifying  _ want _ , if Alfred could come like this. Just this, just from Arthur teasing his nipples. He wants to find out, really, but his own cock is throbbing and fuck is that slick he feels dampening his boxers? Dammit, he’s getting too into this if he’s actually leaking without stimulation. He’d be the one climaxing first at this rate and wouldn't that be embarrassing? Bad enough that he hadn't even noticed Alfred’s heat starting up halfway through their movie until he’d had a lapful of needy omega. That one wasn't solely on him though since  _ Alfred  _ hadn't noticed either and the smell of popcorn had been overwhelming after Alfred had managed to bloody explode a package of kernels in Arthur’s microwave. God, what a pair they made. 

He scores his teeth over that nipple, scooting back into Alfred’s lap so he can fumble with the button on his jeans. No belt; Alfred had been favouring skinny jeans lately, all of them too-tight in a way that highlighted every curve of his hips and thighs and arse and left absolutely nothing to the imagination. It had been both terrible and wonderful and Arthur both hated and adored the bloody things. With the opportunity to peel them off though, he’s feeling far more charitable. Charitable enough to make an effort.

_ " _ Fuck _ ,” _ Alfred rasps faintly, eyes wide and dark and dazed as Arthur shimmies further down his body and proceeds to unzip those damned jeans with his teeth. He’s flushed pink to his ears, glasses askew and hair a wreck. Arthur vaguely remembers running his hands through the thick mass earlier and finding it softer than he expected. He’d liked petting Alfred’s hair though. Maybe he could do it again later. Preferably after fucking the boy through the mattress. 

Arthur rubs his cheek against Alfred’s straining cock, through his underwear, and thrills in the unintelligible cry he receives. Alfred’s hips buck, but Arthur shoves them back down and holds those glorious legs open when Alfred squirms and tries to close them. It was futile anyway, with Arthur lying between his thighs. Was he shy? Arthur doesn't particularly care and doubts Alfred will either, once Arthur’s done with him.  _ Won't be too difficult. Hell, he’s barely able to string together two coherent words now. _ Arthur mouths at his cock through his pants and Alfred loses what little is left of his composure, dissolving into a gasping, moaning mess. _ God, that’s hot. _ There was just  _ something  _ about having a partner so beautifully responsive to every touch. It was gratifying, for one. Arthur isn't even giving him a proper blowjob yet and he was already falling to pieces. 

There's a wet spot on those boxers by the time Arthur draws back to inspect his work; the damp fabric clings obligingly to the outlines of a generous cock. He’s breathing rather harshly, but it’s nothing compared to Alfred, who’s collapsed on his back and wheezing like a dying man. It’s rather adorable how affected he is. It makes Arthur want to pin him down and take him apart, see how he looked splayed out, mindless and trembling with pleasure. 

Well, no one could say Arthur didn't have realistic goals. 

He hooks his fingers into the elastic of Alfred’s pants and yanks them down to tangle around his knees, boxers and all, Alfred’s cock bouncing free and with it, a heady rush of that… god, that  _ smell  _ \- Arthur has his face buried between Alfred’s thighs before he can even think about it, before the other omega can even cry out, almost purring as he laps at the slick coating soft skin. “So sweet,” he murmurs, barely hearing himself over the rush of blood in his ears and Alfred’s slightly belated moan. “My god, you smell  _ divine. _ ”

This might’ve been Arthur’s favourite part of sleeping with other omegas. The way they smelled, the way their thighs clamped around his head and they cried out in mingled surprise and pleasure… Alfred’s going mad above him, thrashing wildly, his hands clawing at the sheets and christ, those beautiful  _ sounds  _ he was making - he's coming undone already and his reaction was only fuelling Arthur’s. The angle is a little awkward though and there's only so much he can reach with Alfred’s legs still pinned together by his jeans. That’s easily rectified; Arthur just yanks blindly at the fabric bunched up around Alfred’s knees until they slip off, taking his socks with them and leaving Alfred’s lower body completely bare. 

It’s a damned good view, from where Arthur’s situated. He presses a kiss to the inner curve of a soft thigh and watches as Alfred shivers, hands fisting in the sheets.  _ Definitely shy. _ The lad wasn't even looking at him and his blush seemed to be equal parts arousal and pure embarrassment. Arthur, fortunately, suffers from no such impediments. He rakes his eyes over Alfred’s body shamelessly, admiring the defined muscle and smooth tanned skin, the jut of that pretty cock between spread legs. Then he thought about the unholy combination of baggy hoodies and loose-fitting shirts that could always be found on Alfred. There was only one thing to do. “I’m going to burn all your clothes,” Arthur says, gaze lingering. He watches with no small amount of amusement as the sheer absurdity of the statement makes Alfred squawk, look over, then blink as if only just realising their compromising position and squeak, looking away very hurriedly. It was cute. “Oh hush, I didn't mean  _ right now. _ ” They had much better things to do, after all. 

Arthur goes back to his looking. Alfred notices this time and squeaks again, moving to cover himself. Rather put out by this, Arthur catches him by the wrists and wrestles his hands away. Shy or not, he wasn't going to let Alfred get away with trying to hide. 

To retaliate, he leans forward just enough to press his lips to the dripping head of that lovely cock. Alfred makes a slightly strangled sound. His face, Arthur notices when he peers up through his lashes, was redder than ever. He had been struggling slightly against Arthur’s grip, but now, as Arthur opens his mouth and sucks gently at the very tip of his cock, Alfred seems to entirely forget that his hands are pinned to the mattress. He goes lax, moaning as Arthur tongues at his slit. His scent spikes again, sweet and inviting enough that Arthur moves without thinking, pressing closer to take in more of him, tracing a thick vein along the underside of it in a way that makes Alfred thrash, his breaths coming in quick, shallow pants. 

He's almost quiet when he comes, quick and wet and bitter in Arthur’s mouth, catching him by surprise. It’s one of those sudden orgasms you always get during heat though, something that only  _ barely  _ takes the edge off, leaving you still hot and needy and wanting more often than not. Poor Alfred. (Arthur can sympathise. He’s looking at quite a few of them in his immediate future.) He swallows everything more-or-less neatly and sits back up, rubbing soothingly at Alfred’s hip while waiting for him to recover. 

“Feeling all right? Not too sensitive?” Arthur asks him solicitously. Heats were a bit of a pain in the arse. An  _ enjoyable  _ one, sure, but they could be too inconvenient for words sometimes. (Especially in America. He had no idea what the American omegas even  _ did  _ here. Had no single bloody person heard of heat agencies in this godforsaken place? Did they just  _ like  _ suffering alone? Bloody Americans.)

He refocuses when  _ his  _ particular American moans a little, wriggling about. He was already getting hard again, that pretty cock plumping up between his legs. Arthur takes that as permission. He wraps a hand around the shaft and Alfred jolts, hissing out a breath through his teeth. “Mm, I… w-wait,  _ Arthur… _ ” 

Too soon, it seemed. Arthur releases him with a murmured apology, reaching up to smooth a few strands of golden hair back from his temples. He plucks Alfred’s glasses off while he's at it, making him blink. He looked younger without them, eyes bright and blue and unguarded.  _ Pretty,  _ Arthur thinks absently, leaning over Alfred to stick his glasses on the bedside table. Inexplicably, Alfred blushes again. 

He really was beautiful though. Arthur couldn't have chosen a better heat partner, Alfred’s as-yet uncertain preferences aside. Arthur might have given that last bit more thought, ordinarily, but Alfred had reciprocated - practically hurled himself at Arthur when his heat had first begun, in fact - and his thoughts were clouding over again and Alfred’s mouth was slightly open, wet and lush and inviting and  _ right there in front of him _ … 

Alfred makes a small, startled sound when Arthur kisses him, but parts his lips readily enough to ease any worries about physical attraction. Or perhaps his standards had just fallen because he was halfway in heat. Arthur supposes he might be a bit hurt if the latter was the case, but he wasn't about to be picky about it with his own heat approaching. Anyway, he had… a few hours tops, and then he’d be a moaning mess and any superficial emotional wounds would be irrelevant. 

Most of the omegas he’d known would settle for another warm body during a heat anyway, regardless of nature. Alfred probably didn't mind. Perhaps this was simply how the Americans did it, choosing from their own friends and acquaintances instead of going through a heat agency. Yes, that made sense. Thus reassured, Arthur kisses with renewed vigour, running his tongue along the straight line of Alfred’s teeth and flicking lightly at the roof of his mouth, deliberately provocative. He angles his hips, hoping that Alfred will take the hint; Arthur’s always liked being manhandled and Alfred’s normally grabby enough; linking their arms or snatching up Arthur’s hand to drag him along somewhere, leaning companionably into his side during classes and at meals. 

So Arthur isn't going to lie about being slightly disappointed by the continued absence of broad, calloused palms on his skin. (Alfred played a lot of sports. Arthur watches sometimes, usually paying minimal attention to the ball.) Slightly indignant, he detaches their mouths with a wet sound and sits up to scowl at his uncharacteristically reticent paramour. Friend. New heat partner. Whatever. Who was gaping up at him a bit stupidly. Why he was being gaped at was beyond him, (his kissing couldn't have been  _ that  _ bad, right?) but nonetheless, Arthur abruptly feels slightly insecure. It’s a new feeling. He doesn't much like it. 

“Alfred,” he says, tilting his head and politely deciding to ignore the gaping. “I am under the impression that sex tends to be an activity for more than one person. A sort of joint undertaking, in fact.” Alfred blinks owlishly at him, pink-cheeked and breathless. It was lucky he was so cute. Arthur sighs. “I am  _ saying _ ,” he rolls his hips forwards pointedly. “That I would like some bloody  _ involvement  _ from you if we are going to fuck. You do want to fuck me, yes?”

The last bit is the insecurity showing. Arthur reins it back. He was fucking  _ fantastic  _ in bed, thank you very much. And Alfred already seemed to like him enough outside it, with the way he was always glomming onto Arthur. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I actually wrote this but I reread my own notes and I thinnk the gist of this is that in this AU, there are different cultural expectations regarding heats in England vs America so Arthur's very much down for some casual sex while Alfred's kinda floundering a little. Anyway I thought some ukus would be fun but I ran out of motivation for the rest, so let's jut pretend that this ends in them having a nice heart-to-heart and getting together for reals


	4. America with dog ears + tail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was inspired by a comment by the awesome The_Wayward_Orphans_101 in like.... june lol. It was supposed to be porn but ah well

America was sulking.

This, in itself, was not unusual. England is halfway convinced by now that America believes pouting and widening his eyes a surefire way to get whatever the hell he wants. It was ridiculous. It was galling. And worst of all was that it was  _ effective _ , damn him. England was pathetically weak to big blue eyes and pleading looks. He’d been weak when it was a tiny, wide-eyed waif that barely came up past his hip turning that beseeching look upon him as a last-ditch attempt to avoid a bath or a nap or a lesson or a scolding after he’d brought some stray animal home (an unfortunately regular occurrence) and tracked mud all over the carpets (an unfortunately even more regular occurrence) and just about given the poor housekeeper a heart attack. 

America had been a somewhat difficult child.

And then that waif had grown up and charmed his way into England’s bed somehow and now had even more tricks in his repertoire when it came to getting his way. (And yes, those tricks did tend to involve little or no clothing and England being reduced to a moaning mess more often than not.)

It was all tremendously bad for England’s higher thinking but he had a _reputation_ , blast it all, and he couldn't go caving every time America looked at him imploringly. France would never have let him live it down.

It was little consolation but America utilised the pitiful puppy-eyed look fairly regularly, at least. It gave a man a chance to build up some resistance. 

(England had yet to build up a resistance.)

However, for all the enthusiasm that America put into the kicked puppy act, it had to be noted that his little routine did not usually consist of  _ actual  _ dog ears. Or a tail. 

England stares for a solid minute. He takes in the absolute wreck of his basement, the loose parchment scattered all over the place, which for all intents and purposes, looked as if a hurricane had blown past in the ten minutes that he’d been gone to brew the nice cup of tea now growing cold on the countertop upstairs. Granted, _ hurricane damage _ might have been an apt comparison of the messes that America tends to leave in his wake.

England thinks, faintly, that he might even have preferred the hurricane. With some trepidation, he eyes the peculiar, glowy swirl of colours in the potion spilt across the formerly pristine stone floor (which was  _ not  _ supposed to glow at all, for heaven’s sake, he hadn't even added the diced salamander tails yet). 

And a pouting America was sitting right in the middle of it all. With distinctly dog-like ears on his head and a fluffy tail curled on the floor next to him. The tail is angled a little awkwardly, possibly due to the jeans that America is wearing. It still managed to flick about in a manner eerily reminiscent of America’s past passionate declarations, whenever confronted with evidence of his wrong-doing, that  _ no, this was absolutely not MY fault, nope, not at all, can't imagine how this happened.  _

It was a very expressive tail.

And this was a very impressive mess.

England sighs. He puts his face in his hands for a moment, sorely tempted to just shut the door and retreat for that cuppa before facing this particular problem. 

This was going to be a long day. 

* * *

“This was absolutely your fault.” 

England glowers when America has the gall to splutter a little at the accusation. He pours himself a fresh cup of tea a bit more aggressively than was really necessary, setting the pot down with a noisy rattle. “I don't know  _ what  _ you managed to do to yourself or, hell, even  _ how  _ \- this potion was supposed to be for soothing minor ailments like muscle pains or headaches and then you blundered in and ended up with a bloody  _ tail  _ of all things. How on earth did that even… wait.”

He narrows his eyes at America’s face. America’s distinctly guilty face. “You didn't.” 

America’s new ears droop. The guilt was unmistakable and would have been even if England had been without a thorough understanding of canine body language from all the pets he’d kept over the years. Latest of which being the overgrown one currently sitting dejectedly in his living room.

“You  _ did.”  _ England gives in to the urge to bury his face in his hands again. He rubs at his temples with a groan. “Oh, for- what possessed you to go adding things into the cauldron, you daft boy? And then, what, taking a fucking swim in it afterwards?”

“I didn't  _ swim  _ in it,” America says, starting to puff up a little indignantly before deflating again under England’s glare. He mumbles something about how he’d apparently  _ just climbed in through the window and maybe… accidentally knocked some stuff in  _ and  _ it kinda exploded…? _ and England has to take several deep breaths to keep from bodily throwing the idiot out of his house. People sometimes made dogs sleep outside right? As punishment and such? It seemed well-deserved in this case. The weather wasn't even that cold yet; America would be fine. 

America, who wasn't even supposed to be here at all. Not for another week, at least. England would never have set foot near his basement, let alone been brewing anything down there, had he known that America was in the same continent. Damned fool, sneaking in unannounced. He’d probably come early as a surprise or some other sentimental rubbish. England regards the idiot currently flopped woefully atop his sofa with immense exasperation. And perhaps some unbidden delight as well, because America was  _ here,  _ a full week early, and clearly not the only sentimental fool in the room. Still, warm fuzzy feelings or not, it would hardly do to  _ show  _ it. Oh, it wouldn't do at all, not after the mess America had made. 

He sips his tea, considering. He could try to reverse the effects of the botched potion, of course, but it would be an arduous job, given that he had no idea what America had knocked in and rather doubted America himself knew either. It would probably wear off in a week or two anyway; America could deal with his new features in the meantime.  _ And honestly, the little bugger rather deserves it…  _

* * *

America is, predictably, very unhappy with this assessment. 

He sulks with his typical flair, curling up into a sullen heap on England’s sofa with his back to the room and consequently, England himself. As this position affords England a fairly good look at the tail that America is now sporting, he isn't exactly inclined to complain. 

_ Golden retriever, _ he thinks, studying it critically as it swishes and leaves little blond hairs clinging to the cushions in its wake. Of course, there was no way to really be certain, but England is rather amused by the seeming coincidence. The breed fit America quite well in his opinion. He glances at the admittedly rather cute ears perched atop America’s head and notes absently that the golden colour of the fur matched his hair. It looked soft. England… rather wants to touch it, actually. Would America like having his ears scratched? 

Well, they were about to find out because England is now crouching by the sofa with his hand about an inch away from making contact despite him having no memory of consciously deciding to do so. 

It mattered not; the fur on those ears  _ was  _ as soft as it looked. England feels somewhat validated, even though he’s not sure why. He runs a finger over them lightly, aware that America hadn't startled at all at the touch. He’d only huffed a little and curled up tighter into his little ball, still on his side and facing away. He must have heard England coming. Well, he wasn't protesting so it was probably all right. 

After a moment, England curls his fingers and- oh, now America twitches, just a little, as England scratches his nails lightly over the skin at the base of those ears. 

“What’re you doing?” America sounded wary. He was also tilting his head into England’s fingers, seemingly entirely unaware that he was even doing it. England finds his lips twitching. 

“Scratching your ears, clearly. How does it feel?”

“Demeaning,” America claims, perfectly serious, and then headbutts England’s hand when he starts to remove it in a rather dog-like manner and dares to seem entirely surprised by his own actions. It was inordinately adorable. England immediately decides that it was utterly necessary to find out what other new behaviours America may or may not have acquired. He finds a spot on the sofa with only minimal difficultly, simply pushing America upright enough to sit down in one corner, not complaining when America immediately puts his head in his lap. It made those cute ears of his even more accessible for scratches and pets after all. 

It is shortly discovered that dragging his nails firmly over the sensitive spot where skin meets fur is more than enough to make America melt, that fluffy tail wagging behind him in unmistakable bliss. 

England takes note of this new weakness. 


	5. if you don't have your own tentacles, store-bought is fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mostly put this up because I wanted to finally use that title

It could be said that America had a bad habit. Several, in fact, as England would have put in, all cute and snooty and proper with his fluffy hair and his sweater vest and his nose in the air as he sipped tea out of an unnecessarily delicate porcelain cup that America was no longer allowed to touch after he’d accidentally chipped one of its brethren.

The bad habit of the month (and the few months prior, because America did nothing by halves, and this was no exception) was porn. Specifically, tentacle porn. 

Now, it wasn't that America thought porn was bad. It was hot and a pretty fun way to spend an evening when he was tragically alone because England couldn't come visit and he was pretending that the pile of work on his desk didn't exist. Besides, he’d gotten over the puritan thing long ago, even before he and England had got together, which had proven to be very fortunate because England was a field and the puritans probably would have fainted if they could see the kind of stuff he came up with. But well, when your virtual porn collection took up all the hard drive space on your laptop and the box at the back of your closet where you stash… say, doujinshi and pinups that your boyfriend would probably murder you for (America didn't know  _ how  _ Japan had gotten those pictures and he had a feeling that he didn't want to) seemed about one dirty book away from bursting and thinking about the stuff in them made you so horny all the fucking time that the second you see your boyfriend after three months, you drag him off to make out in the airport parking lot until security makes you leave but then you make him bend you over the kitchen counter the second you get home and well, America could go on but anyway, it might be time to admit that you had a problem. 

Of course, this was all hypothetical. America hadn't done any of… that. Right. Of course.

Japan had suggested, when America had told him a very condensed version of the story because Japan had been the one to start this whole chain of crazy with that tentacle monster comic tucked innocuously into the box of newly released manga he’d sent to America every month so now he was obliged to listen to America’s woes and - wait, he’d had a point, where had he been going with this again? Oh, right, Japan had suggested, sitting with his feet tucked neatly under him and his face so perfectly serious that America couldn't tell if he was kidding or not, that perhaps he ought to try acting out some of the scenes that he had enjoyed. It would help, he had claimed, for America to get closure of a sort. He had thought that experiencing the fantasy would, in a way, help America stop obsessing over it.

(Japan had many ideas about solving the problem. Most of them would probably get America shot. Or stabbed. Or poisoned, whichever England felt like doing at the time.)

Japan, it could be said, was not a very good influence. 

But well, America was a hot mess and Japan was very convincing (it was the face. The ‘ _ I am very proper and very understanding and am definitely am not egging you on for my own amusement’ _ face that Japan had perfected.) and so America had left Japan’s house with a suitcase full of new doujinshi with people that looked suspiciously like England and himself being assaulted by tentacle monsters in fantastically improbable scenarios. And also some schematics for what looked like an actual tentacle monster, which Japan had labelled with a note:  _ I have encountered numerous problems with designing a robot sophisticated enough to respond autonomously to both verbal and non-verbal cues and would recommend simply creating the tentacles and manually controlling them. I enclose these plans in the hopes that you can find a use for them.  _

Goddamnit, Japan.   
  


* * *

Now, America had not exactly thought of bringing Tony into his mess. 

Had he harboured the fleeting idea that  _ gosh, making mechanical tentacles sure would be easier with alien tech?  _ Perhaps. 

But for all that Tony liked England visiting (it never failed to get him off his video games and one time, he’d even waited on the porch with America), he had not been happy when he walked in on them fucking on the sofa. Or the kitchen. Or the garage. Uh. Anyway. 

America was pretty sure that Tony would refuse point-blank to make the tentacles no matter how many video games he tried to bribe him with. And while America did know some guys in robotics and R&D, there was no fucking way he was gonna ask  _ them  _ to do it because gossip spread  _ fast  _ in the White House and America really didn't want to have another of  _ those  _ talks with his boss. 

America would just have to make them himself. (England would probably come ‘round, he reasoned, and there was no point bothering him about it if America couldn't even make the things right?)

* * *

He could not make the things.

Tony put his foot down after the fourth time America blew up the garage (weird, he hadn't even been working in the garage at the time) by snatching up the plans that Japan had so kindly provided and stomping away, cussing very loudly the whole time, which meant that Tony was taking care of it and America would get his tentacles in a week. 

Yay! 

Now he just had to tell England.

* * *

England did not look impressed. 

“You want,” he said slowly, in the manner of a man that was desperately hoping that America would laugh and tell him it was a joke. “To attach those  _ things- _ ”

“Tentacles,” America put in because Tony had worked hard on them and demanded so many video games for his payment that it would take a regular person years to play them all. America had faith that Tony would finish them in a month. 

“-things,” England carried on as if he hadn't heard. “To me.” 

All right, America would admit that the whole set up in his basement didn't look very promising. Tony seemed to have agreed with Japan’s note that tentacle monsters were a no-go and had thus made eight individual tentacles of varying thickness that were all longer than America was tall and if the manual that Tony had thrown at his head earlier was any indication, could elongate if the wearer wished. (Alien tech rocked.) 

England did not seem to agree. He was eyeing the thin needle things protruding from the base of each tentacle with a blank expression that didn't bode well for America’s plans. 

“It’s perfectly safe,” America insisted stubbornly. “Japan came up with the original -”

“Oh, so this was  _ Japan’s  _ idea, was it,” England said ominously. (In his traditionally furnished home halfway around the world, Japan pauses in the middle of pouring tea, feeling an odd chill.) 

“-and Tony’s done a lot of research on humans. See, you've just gotta stick them in your back and then you can control the-”

England didn't seem to have heard anything past  _ ‘stick them in your back _ ’, so America breaks off with a pout. England was a sucker for the pout. And well, desperate times, so America dials up his persuasiveness by whining and clinging to England’s arm and pushing his body into England’s with a brazenness that would make him blush if he hadn't been on a mission. 

England doesn't look at him (which is kinda impressive with how closely America’s plastered to him), but there's a faint flush to his pale cheeks now and America doesn't hesitate to press his advantage. 

“I’ll do whatever you want for a week,” he says, widening his eyes hopefully at his boyfriend, who looked cornered. “Sexually, I mean.” And then he leaves it at that because England’s a perv and whatever he comes up with will probably be better than anything America can say. 

A pause. England was probably thinking of something depraved, judging from the way his flush had darkened and crept steadily down his collar. America gives a not-so-subtle little wriggle and nibbles at his own bottom lip, just to help him along.

It works. 

“A week,” England says finally, defeated. He tolerates America’s victorious whoop with surprising grace but then snakes an arm around his waist and yanks him back in for a harsh kiss that leaves America breathless. “I hope this is worth it, love.”  _ Because I’m going to break you.  _

Oh, that was definitely his bedroom look, the one that only made an appearance when America was on his back and tangled in the sheets, the one he always had when he made America moan and beg for more. America goes a little red himself, body heating up under England’s intent gaze.

God, he was hot when he was scheming. America’s hoping for another kiss, but then England pries him off and stalks over to snatch up the gear. “Where’s your alien? I want to speak to him.”

America tells him the way to Tony’s room and only melts into a chair when England’s gone, already thrumming with anticipation as he imagines it, being held down and used, moaning as he's penetrated and how maybe England would use more than one to fuck him… 

He couldn't  _ wait _ .

* * *

England made him wait because of course, he did.

Tony hadn't been able to finish whatever modifications England had wanted before his flight, but America had express-mailed it to the UK within the week. (He’d sent it out the literal second he had that baby bubble-wrapped to hell and back and then covered every square inch of the box with those glaring red  _ FRAGILE  _ stickers.)

It had been a month since their little negotiation in America’s house and America’s never been particularly patient. Not as a kid, and definitely not now when he was so twitchy with anticipation that he would have jumped on the next plane to London just to see what was taking _ so goddamned long _ if that wasn't a surefire way to make England take even longer just to toy with him. 

Still, America could make his displeasure known by texting England. And he did. Constantly. 

Until England had sent back an exasperated message reminding him that since America had  _ “told your pet alien to give the blasted things enough strength to restrain even  _ you _ , I hardly believe you’d want them anywhere near your cock until I learn how to control them properly _ !” Attached to that little rant had been a slightly disturbing clip of a tentacle reducing a watermelon to mush by wrapping around it and squeezing. Yikes. 

_.... Point taken _ , America had texted back and resolved to not bother England anymore. For the day, at least.


	6. Chapter 6

  
  


England is not sure what on earth he had been thinking, telling America about the piercings. 

The answer, he rather suspects, was that he had not been thinking at all. After all, if memory served, America had been doing all manner of indecent things to him at the time and there had always just been something about those deceptively sweet blue eyes and that truly devious mouth that inspired honesty. And England supposed that he did have a bit of loose tongue when he was getting fucked into a mattress and being made to moan America’s name like a whore, desperate and gasping and  _ a-ah, Alfred, there-! _

He hadn't exactly meant to, of course, but when America was focused on him like that, all smouldering intensity and stubborn, single-minded determination to drive England out of his mind with pleasure… well. The damning admission had just slipped out and worse of all was how England hadn't even realised until afterwards, when America had lit up with unholy delight that didn't at all bode well for him.

There was a reason that England hadn't wanted America to know that he’d had his nipples pierced, after all.

It had been a decision made years ago, for starters, back when the damned things had been in fashion. France might have egged him on a little, England thinks, but it had ultimately been a drunken whim. And well, perhaps the vague idea of the sensual pleasure brought about by heightened sensitively had played a role in it too because England could, on occasion, acknowledge that he had been somewhat a sex-obsessed maniac in his youth. Not to say that he was no longer one, of course, just that he was a bit more discreet about it nowadays. And having the piercings in all the time was hardly  _ discreet, _ so the jewellery had been packed away into little boxes and tucked neatly in his dresser. 

Dubious life choices aside, however, the main reason for England’s reticence was that America’s little obsession - with his fucking nipples, of all things- did not need further encouragement. 

And it  _ was  _ an obsession. America had begged and wheedled and pouted to be granted permission to subject his poor nipples to all manner of things - from clamps (that made him squirm) to ice cubes (that were fucking  _ cold _ , goddamnit) to whipped cream (a waste of food and was that even _ hygienic- _ ) far more times than England cared to recall. He’s rather lost count by now, in fact, how many depraved ideas America had come up with and shortly thereafter persuaded him to try.

England never stopped him though. Partly because America always lit up so adorably when England indulged him, all pink cheeks and that damned sunshine smile and  _ you wouldn't regret it, babe, I’ll make it good for you.  _

Worse of all was that he  _ did, _ and now England actually found his heart rate picking up, feeling the faint pulse of what might have been breathless anticipation every time America cornered him (around the house, in corridors, halfway through bloody  _ meetings _ ) and put warm lips to his ear for the whispered request, the  _ would you let me- _

America was a darling, really. And England has always been terrible about saying no to him.

And that is how England ended up like this- flat on his back and staring a tad bemusedly up at his ceiling as America straddles his lap and leans over his torso, prodding at the shiny metal bars through his nipples with almost childish fascination. 

Not that there's anything childish about the erection England can clearly feel pressing against his upper thigh. America, it seemed, liked the piercings. Perhaps a bit too much for England’s peace of mind. He’s resolutely  _ not  _ watching - bad enough that he’d allowed himself to be talked into this, he didn't need to be plagued with the comely flush in America’s cheeks or what he knows will be adoration in America’s lovely eyes or the gentle, almost reverent way that America’s fingers are brushing over tender flesh or the way that America’s tongue is peeking out a little from between his teeth, pink and wet.

It’s not exactly an unpleasant sensation, truth be told, being touched like this. England knows, vaguely, that nipple piercings are something of a gamble, but he can apparently be counted among the lucky number that did end up with the much sought-after sensitivity. He is forced to bite his lip, breath hitching as America’s fingers close around him - still gentle, just testing the waters. England hadn't exactly instructed him to, but America could clearly be sensible on his own sometimes and was thus erring on the side of caution. 

Perhaps a bit too much though. The vibrator was just overkill, in England’s opinion, but America had been insistent and England hadn't been about to complain with strong hands stroking and petting and opening him up. ( _ You're being so nice to me, sweetheart. I gotta make sure you have fun too, right?) _ America had worked him into a loose, boneless puddle earlier with almost embarrassing ease and slipped the already buzzing toy inside him before assuming his current position over England.

America was a fairly considerate lover, really. The vibrator he’d selected was one of England’s favourites, a slightly curved thing that filled him up so well and could be easily adjusted to apply  _ just  _ the right amount of pressure against his prostate. And with his thighs pressed together, caged in by America’s knees on either side, it felt even bigger than usual, buzzing away merrily inside him. England isn't quite moaning yet, but he might be soon. Especially if America kept doing that- the careful little twist of calloused fingers around his nipple, making excellent use of the piercings. 

_ Oh, yes, yes, just like that…  _

England melts, just a little. He wonders, idly, if America had looked up how best to play with pierced nipples or if the boy was just a natural. Everything felt warm and a little fuzzy around the edges and it’s not nearly enough stimulation for an orgasm, no, but England doesn't really mind. He’d let America have his fun for now. 

He falls into a pleasant sort of daze, lulled by the pleasure and the warmth and the faintly possessive satisfaction of having all of America’s attention focused solely on him. The boy had always been somewhat fickle, after all, skipping cheerfully from whim to fleeting whim and never stopping for long. England wouldn't lie; it had always been somewhat gratifying to have America be so attentive towards him, so eager to please. More than enough to make up for the little idiosyncrasies and occasional not-so-innocent  _ request _ , which were hardly a hardship, really. Just the opposite, if anything, and now America has him arching his back and gasping, fingers twisted in the sheets. 

“Does that feel good?” 

America’s pulled back to look at him, or so England assumes, given that he’d shut his eyes a while ago and didn't quite feel like prying them open now to check. He hums in response, noncommittal, because it would hardly do to admit weakness. America already knew far too many of England’s for comfort. 

He can still feel warm breath on his skin, ghosting across the spit-slick trails that America had left all over with his mouth. It’s shiver-inducing and England gives in to the urge to tangle a hand in America’s hair, cupping his nape and not-so-subtly nudging him back to where that mouth was quite sorely missed.

“You were moaning a little,” America says, the cheeky thing, letting himself be nudged until he doesn’t. He's smiling, lips quirked as he smoothes butterfly kisses over the curve of England’s ribs, working his way down. “You like this, didn't you?”

“Burden of proof, my dear,” England murmurs simply, which is not a denial and they both know it. He twitches when America chuckles and licks a hot thin strip over his stomach. This is distinctly not the direction that England had originally been trying to steer America in but he’d be damned if he stopped the boy now. He’s barely able to keep from squirming as America makes his meandering way down, taking a detour to nuzzle at the jut of one hipbone, then the other. He’s practically sitting on England’s knees now, one hand braced on his thigh and that mouth so, so tantalisingly close to his aching cock that England half-wants to shove that blond head down and make America choke on it. 

He holds back a groan as America presses a smattering of soft, wet kisses over the thin skin at the base of his belly, so low that his chin is brushing the base of England’s cock. Little tease.  “Mmmh, Alfred…” 

“Well,  _ I _ like this,” America says, brightly, clearly in as chatty a mood as always. He kisses  _ up  _ now, the fickle boy, dragging his tongue along England’s torso as if England were one of those blasted ice lollies he’s forever stuffing his face with during summertime (usually while giving England somewhat… inappropriate  _ looks  _ with his lips wrapped tight around the blasted things). America shifts his weight, nudges his stiff cock into the part of England’s thighs and England doesn't let himself react to it at all, save for the slight tightening of his fingers in America’s golden hair. Lovely, lovely America, with such innocent eyes and such a  _ filthy  _ mind. America, who does not seem to have finished speaking his piece, breathing his next words hotly into England’s skin. 

“And these.” 

Ominous, that. England gives in to the urge and peeks, wary, only to be confronted with blue eyes and a beaming smile and barely-there fingers on his nipple, light and teasing, toying with his piercing. “I like them a whole lot, sweetheart.” 

Those fingers tighten, tighten and  _ twist  _ \- slowly, sweetly,  _ agonisingly _ , and England can't help it; he breathes out a faint curse that turns into a low moan as America leans forward and takes the little nub into his mouth, swirling his tongue wetly ‘round the tip, sucking lightly. His teeth scrape tantalisingly over metal; scrape and catch and  _ tug  _ and England’s next breath sticks in his throat. It’s the heat, it must be, with America pinning him to the bed and touching him just so - or  _ not  _ touching him, seeing as there was nothing but empty space and tauntingly cool air above his aching cock when England’s hips shift and arch off the bed at a particularly clever trick that America manages with his tongue. 

It’s too hot in here, far, far too hot, even with the curtains drawn and everything so dim and indistinct and faraway except for America, who was all soft smiles and sunshine-gold, who was pressed to him so intimately and god, where were his hands going  _ now- _ ?

England is not entirely certain how the fact that he had a vibrator up the arse had slipped his mind. It seemed fairly safe to blame America for it though and so England does. He very much blames America for the fact that his breathing is too quick and his heartbeat too loud in his ears and also for the short, startled yelp that makes it out of his throat when America smiles mischievously and that is all the warning he gets before there is a brief flurry of motion that ends with England bent almost in half with his knees hooked over broad shoulders and not quite sure how he got there, blinking up as America looms over him, pressing him into the mattress. 

Nevermind the vulnerability of such a position though, how he’s open and exposed; the yelp had been a catastrophic mistake. England glowers best as he can at America’s unabashed amusement. “Some  _ warning  _ next time-”

He cuts off with a sharp, strangled sound as America does… something.  _ Something  _ with the goddamned vibrator that makes his spine arch and stars bloom behind his eyelids and England is faintly aware that he is making all manner of truly embarrassing noises as America works the toy in and out and  _ in- _

“T-turn it up,” he gasps out, almost stumbling over a moan, and might have writhed if America hadn't been holding his thighs, grip just shy of being deliciously painful. “Mm, Alfred, I- fuck,  _ more- _ ”

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

Alfred, as a general rule, quite liked orgasms. They were a nice, fun way to end a day mostly spent stuck in meetings with hordes of ministers who tended to be either ancient and self-important or ancient and well-meaning with an unfortunate habit of beginning sentences with  _ Back in your father’s day…  _ (It was usually all three though.) Luckily, Alfred had found that the aftereffects of terminal boredom could be easily cured when you had a very hot husband all too willing for a quickie in dark alcoves or a good old-fashioned roll in the hay. 

Now, Alfred never quite appreciates orgasms quite as much as he does right after Arthur gets home from long trips and Arthur’s been gone for  _ weeks  _ attending some fancy seminar in Hearts; something about modern applications of healing magic in repairing nerve damage, Alfred thinks. Arthur had been invited as a guest speaker. And Alfred’s usually  _ all  _ for getting off as quickly and as many times as humanly possible (even if Arthur disagrees) but sometimes… just sometimes, he can admit that you can have a bit too much of a good thing. Just a tiny bit.

Like right now. 

Arthur’s got him flat on his back and is currently perched primly on the bed between his legs, doing some slightly questionable but still immensely pleasurable things to him. This is hardly a position anyone can complain about, let alone Alfred, but there  _ is  _ the fact that he’s already come so fucking many times that his brain feels a little like it’s turned to goo and is currently melting out his ears. Which was inconsequential, really, not like Alfred was using it or anything. He’d lost count long ago of how many orgasms he’d shuddered through and Arthur doesn't seem at all inclined to stop at this one, not with that smug little curve to his smile as he pushes his fingers a little deeper and then curls them, at just the right angle to make Alfred squirm. 

And it’s good, so fucking good and Alfred’s so fucking sensitive by now that it’s almost too much and he almost misses the brief electric flash of green eyes and the tell-tale crackle in the air that comes with Arthur using his magic. And that’s all the warning he gets before it takes effect and his whole body seizes and Alfred almost sobs under the onslaught of sensation as he comes. 

“Cheater,” he rasps when he can speak again. Arthur’s watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, mouth curving. 

“My love?”

“We said no more magic in bed, Arthur.”

“Did we now?” Arthur makes small sparks dance around his fingertips; he drags those fingers along the curve of Alfred’s hip. It tingles, goes straight to his head, fresh pleasure sinking into his skin like a brand.

Alfred moans, abject frustration and lust and exhaustion. 

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“Oh, but won’t it be a way to go.”

Arthur sits there and smiles, dark-eyed and beautiful and finally back after so long, and Alfred truly can't disagree. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's all for now! Thanks for reading! ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

**Author's Note:**

> this one was just... doomed to die lol. I don't know anything about English/American history


End file.
